Paul is dead, man

An emergency meeting in Santa Monica to whittle out a tactful way to continue raking in the big bucks from a movie franchise that glorifies the idiotic lifestyle that resulted in the incineration of its lead actor. How can we acknowledge the fragile, fleeting nature of our existence without bumming everyone out? Pray tell, how might we fist-bump Kirkegaard and chest-bump our cherished, backward-capped bro demographic simultaneously?

Linda! Bring me a Chai tea.

Perhaps we can digitally alter the cars so that they appear to be travelling at a marginally reduced rate of speed.

No! Terrible idea! Clean out your desk; you’re fired.

Seat belts?

No! Why are you still here?

“Whereas ye know not what shall be on the morrow. For what is your life? It is even a vapour, that appeareth for a little time, and then vanisheth away. (No homo)”

Are you kidding me? People don’t go to the movies to read! You asshole!

Oh Mighty Oracle! We humbly come before you in this hour of great inconvenience and awkwardness, and beg you to bestow upon us your soothing wisdom. How can we move on from this terrible tragedy?

Uhhhhhh…

Yes? What do you say, Mighty Oracle?

Uhhhhhhhhhh… Rrrr…

Raisins? Ravioli? Ryan Reynolds? What is it you’re trying to tell us?

Rrrrrr… Rrrrreeeeee…

Reba McIntyre? Isn’t she a little too–

Rrrreeee… Reeeeboot…

REBOOT! Of course! That’s perfect! It’ll be like what’s-his-face never even existed! What was that guy’s name, anyway? Ah, screw it. Linda! Have all existing copies of every movie in the series located and destroyed! I want a rough draft of the new script on my desk first thing after lunch! And get me Ryan Reynolds’ agent on the phone!